ng horribly and tearing at his windpipe.

It had all happened so quickly that the two living men could only stare
alternately at each other and at the burden that lay in Quinton Edge's
arms. A slim, white figure, with that red stain upon her
breast--spreading, spreading.

Constans gathered himself with a mighty effort. "Let me help you," he
said, and between them they carried her over to the couch and laid her
down. On a near-by table stood a ewer of water; Constans fetched it and
began moistening the bloodless lips. They parted with a little sigh, and
then the eyes of his sister Issa opened upon him. "Little brother," she
whispered, and smiled.

Constans looked over at Quinton Edge, but he shook his head and stood
back among the shadows.

"Little brother," said Issa again, and put out a wavering hand.

XXIX

DEATH AND LIFE

It had been very quiet in the room for a long time. Constans had tried
to make the dying woman more comfortable, but every attempt to move her
had only resulted in the wound breaking out afresh. It was cruelty to
persist, and so he gave it over, waiting for what must come.

Now it seemed that Issa slept, for her eyes were closed and the lines of
pain had wholly disappeared from the smooth, white brow. Quinton Edge
kept his place at the back, where he could see and not be seen; a statue
could not have been more immobile. Constans, kneeling by the couch,
still held his sister's hand in his, keeping watch upon the pulse that
fluttered so delicately. Once or twice the heavy eyes had opened and she
had smiled up at him--contentedly as a child resting after the long
day's play.

Constans had not attempted to speak; his mind was still seeking its
wonted bearings, and he was afraid. His sister Issa!--the little Issa
with whom he had played at fox-chase and grace-hoops. Issa!--the maiden
who had gathered her May-bloom in the long ago, and who had given
herself and all for love of the stranger within her father's gates; yes,
and who had died within that self-same hour upon her lord's breast.

And yet if this miracle were indeed the truth it accounted for more than
one thing that had troubled him. He remembered now the white-robed
figure that had appeared to him in the gardens of Arcadia House and the
superstitious terror with which he had watched it following upon the
unconscious footsteps of the girl Esmay. Then, again, the fair-haired
woman who only a few minutes ago had come to meet Qui